WVA
by crazycocoa00
Summary: This is my creepypasta; Wyatt Von Amistead. Sure, it may seam a little like a normal story, but, it'll change.


"London bridge is falling down," The voice sang sweetly,the paint brush slipping from his hand before being enveloped in darkness. He made a precise incision into her pale complexioned skin.

She whimpered, quietly begging him to stop, to let her live. He simply smiled, shook his head, and tucked a long strand of black hair behind his ear. She looked up, his deep blue eyes piercing her chocolate brown ones.

"Falling down," Another cut, this one deeper into her flesh, using its hooked edge to pull back.

"Falling down," Wyatt sang silently to himself as he worked. He reached into the pried-open chest, cutting at the base of the Superior Vena Cava before removing the heart. This, along with her kidneys and lungs, were the only ones with virtually undamaged tissues. Perfect for the hospital. The red-head went still.

Wyatt slowly made expertise strokes with this sharp brush on his runny, crimson canvas. He placed the "gifts" in each labeled jar, laying them gently in the case at his side. His one white, sterile gloves were now tainted by the prostitutes blood

"My fair lady," Wyatt drew hearts around the open, blank eyes of the woman.

Wyatt sat up in bed, stretching his arms out. The stuffed-cow beside him smiled up at him. Their button eyes shone in the rising sun. Wyatt cast a glance over to the small window above his bed on the dingy white walls, watching the cars drive by. He knew, despite not wanting to, he'd have to get up.

"Well, time to get up, Mr. Moo, " Wyatt beamed before standing, his pink bunny slippers happily squeaking with every step he took towards the small room that was his kitchen.

Opening his white fridge, he let out a gasp. The bottom shelf was clean...too clean. Clean as in, empty.

"M-my chocolate milk," Wyatt whined, mouth forming a frown. Now he actually had to go to the market. He sighed, closing the fridge. Wyatt drug his feet back to his room. He pushed open the dark oak door.

"Mr. Moo, I need to go. You're in charge," Wyatt stated, a hint of authority in his voice. The cow made no response, though, Wyatt continued to slip into his pastel purple jacket, bending over to tie his neon green-blue shoe strings. He closed the door behind him as he zipped up his jacket.

Wyatt strolled briskly past the houses and small businesses, whistling a happy tune. He turned left at the corner of 13th street and immediately smelled the baking bread from Schiller's Bakery. Which just happened to be next to the store, where his chocolate milk awaited.

The bell rang as he opened the glass door and walked into the air conditioning. Behind him, someone shoved past him slightly.

"Excuse me," she scoffed, her light ponytail whipping back into his face. Myra's hair looks so soft, Wyatt thought, lifting one of his darker, longer strands disdainfully.

Wyatt shook his head, heading to aisle 4, where he grabbed two gallons of chocolate milk. On his way to the check out counter, Wyatt saw something that made him stop in his tracks; or, at least, someone.

Their hair was short, and a perfect shade of medium brown. He looked back, his red-brown eyes locking with Wyatt's.

"Excuse me," he mumbled politely, picked up the plastic sacks and left. Wyatt stood, still frozen. So...beautiful.

"Um...sir?" the cashier called, her blonde eyebrows arching in confusion. Wyatt snapped back into reality, smiling slightly.

"S-sorry…" he stuttered, placing his multiple groceries onto the counter.

The cashier hesitantly scanned and bagged the items before handing them and the change to Wyatt. He thanked her, bowing slightly before taking the bags, and walking out of the store. He let his gaze land at the watch on his wrist, his brows knitting together in frustration. Work started in about 10 minutes. How would he get his milk home and make it to work on time? Then, as he nervously glanced around the street, he saw an unattended bicycle. And best of all, it was pink!

"Woo hoo!" Wyatt laughed as he flew down the street, making a sharp turn at the 13th street sign.

He screeched to a stop in front of his house, almost flying over the sparkly handlebars.

"Mr. Moo! I gotsta go!" he hollered to the stuffed cow that was now mysteriously next to a half-empty glass of orange juice.

Wyatt slammed the door behind him and hopped onto the bike. He kicked off, pedaling as if he was being chased by pack of angry, superbears. He soon saw the sign of Otto's Bar and Grill, feeling relief wash over him. That is, until a car turned onto this street. Wyatt didn't even have time to press the brakes before it was merely feet away from him. The car was a foot away, before it stopped. The nose of it was smashed in, as if it had ran into a wall. Wyatt fell over, choking on the smoke.

"Wyatt!" Cynthia Otto cried out, running towards him. "Oh my God! Are you okay?" she grabbed his arms, looking at them and the rest of him.

"I'm fine," he smiled, brushing the dirt off of his cosmic pants.

"Not even a scratch?" She stared at him, giving him another look over.

"I'm fine," he reassured her.

Cynthia sighed. "You're still not going to work."

Wyatt declined his head as Cynthia "escorted" him to the hospital. A.K.A: She dragged him to the hospital.

Though, he wasn't late to work, Cynthia forced him to take the day off. Along with the day after that, so on and so forth.

Meanwhile, a masked man followed the blonde in front of him, his footsteps silent on the concrete. When she took a left turn, he struck. His sickle went clean through her neck, not even giving her enough time to scream. The old man ducked into the alley, trying not to be seen. Apparently, this method worked for the man didn't show any signs of noticing the future witness. They chuckled, stuffing her head into a bag. The thing that stuck in the old man's mind were those glowing red eyes.

"Sheriff's wife found dead."

That what the newspaper headline was. Wyatt grumbled in annoyance; that was supposed to be his next donor. Despite the terrible news, slowly, a grin spread across his face. It seems, Wyatt thought, there's going to be some competition.


End file.
